


seasons may change

by hoosierbitch



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bondage, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Bucky Feels, D/s, Face Slapping, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Power Dynamics, Protective Steve, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 13:28:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4264941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoosierbitch/pseuds/hoosierbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They have never truly been equals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	seasons may change

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DirectorShellhead](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DirectorShellhead/gifts).



> This is for DirectorShellhead, who had SUCH AN AMAZING PROMPT IDEAS--I hope you like what I came up with! 
> 
> And thank you to stoatsandwich, the lovely and understanding mod, for putting together such a fun exchange.
> 
> WARNING: One of the tags on this fic is under-negotiated kink. Steve and Bucky do a scene without talking about what's going to happen in it beforehand. (Don't try that at home, kids.) Message me if you need more info!

The angled sunlight turns the sharp angles of Bucky’s cheekbones into mountains and the loose strands of hair drifting across his skin into ambling roads. The view out their wall of windows from the top of Stark Tower makes New York look small as it sprawls below them. It doesn't matter: the geography of Bucky has always held more interest for Steve than city streets. When Bucky breathes and lowers his head, mountains tremble, and the strands of Bucky’s hair drift towards Steve; the map of Bucky pointing home. 

“I thought you had big plans,” Bucky says. There is too much tension in his voice for true annoyance to come through. “If you wanted me to pose for a fucking drawing, I would have charged you.” Bucky’s naked and on his knees, his hands tied behind his back with soft, dark blue rope. 

“You’re talking,” Steve says. “And I’m pretty sure I told you—” 

“Get on with it,” Bucky interrupts. “I’m bored.” 

Steve has led Bucky in battle, ordered him to kill, to fall back, to wait. Taking charge of him here is harder. 

When they played these games as young men, Steve’s body had been weak and Bucky’s obedience had been more of an attempt to reassure Steve than actual submission. They tried to play these games as soldiers, when the army remade Steve’s body and Zola made Bucky’s body a mystery. Steve had been so afraid of the fact that he was capable of _forcing_ Bucky to do something, that he’d given suggestions instead of orders. 

Before they had their chance to find their balance again, Bucky fell and Steve crashed. Now the world treats them like famous fossils; surprised when they speak, grateful when they fight and win, frightened when they fail. The world needs them too much to keep Steve on a pedestal or Bucky in a prison. And they need each other too much to keep doing that to each other. 

“If you need me to stop,” Steve says, “You don’t have to use a safe word, you can just stay stop. Or if you can’t speak—”

“If I want you to stop, I’ll strangle you. How’s that sound?” 

“Shut up.” Steve recognizes the command in his own voice, but he doesn’t think he’s heard that tone from himself on a battlefield before. Bucky just looks at him, assessing. Steve stands up straighter. Squares his shoulders. “If you can’t speak,” Steve repeats, over-enunciating, “then you shake your head side to side. Got it? No—don’t say anything right now. Just nod.” 

Bucky licks his lips, narrows his eyes, and says, “Make me.” 

Steve pulls the remote out of his pocket and holds it up. Bucky rolls his eyes. “Big boy playing with his toy. What a joke—”

Steve flicks it on, and Bucky goes breathless. The vibrator nestled between Bucky's cheeks, an innocent-looking blue thing not much wider around than Steve’s thumb and curved like a lazy question mark, starts to whir. 

Bucky’s hips jolt forward and a soft sound punches up from his stomach. “Fuck.” He squeezes his eyes closed. “This goddamn thing is—it’s—” 

It’s buzzing right on his prostate is what it’s doing, working him from the inside out. It’s not a toy or a trick they’ve played with before. Steve had lubed it up and worked it inside Bucky with as little prep as he could get away with. He’d wanted something new, something overwhelming, something purely pleasurable. Something that would work as a counterpoint to the rest of Steve’s plans. 

“Stop talking and stick your tongue out.” Bucky shifts his weight with a frown, adjusting the fit of the vibe inside himself, then sticks his tongue out. Steve shifts closer. “You’ve never been very good at blowjobs, Buck, so I’m going to help you out.” Bucky’s eyes widen. Steve can feel the snap Bucky’s comeback coiling up. It’s not really a lie though, given that Steve’s stamina used to be nonexistent, and the only oral they’ve engaged in lately has been so vanilla it was practically flavorless. Steve pulls his pants down around mid-thigh and says, “Lick my cock.” 

Bucky hesitates before he obeys. Steve doesn’t like this new hesitation. Bucky used to obey Steve like it was a race, trying to convince Steve that they were both good enough. Now every acquiescence is a test, with Bucky weighing the cost and risk and gain for both of them before making a move. 

When Bucky’s tongue finally touches his cock, Steve starts to instruct him. “Use the tip of your tongue and lick just under the head.” Bucky’s tongue moves in careful circles, right on the sensitive spot on Steve’s cock that Bucky always handles too roughly during hand jobs. “You’re finally getting something right,” Steve says. Bucky makes a noise, confused surprise and displeasure, then gets right back to work. 

“Good,” Steve says, quiet and clear, stroking the outside of Bucky’s ear gently. 

Some of the tension in Bucky’s forehead fades away. _He likes being praised_ , Steve says to himself, adding it to the mental notebook he has for Bucky now, a list of things that are new or changed. _His left arm can feel phantom pain. He doesn’t like dogs. Has become lactose intolerant?_

Steve pulls his cock out of Bucky’s mouth. “What are you?” Steve asks, distant and curious, like Bucky’s an abstract sculpture, an object not expected to answer. 

Bucky turns away; it’s not the kind of question he likes these days. He has too many therapists and too few good memories. 

“A slut?” Steve asks, crouching down to be on eye level. Bucky gaze whips back to him inhumanly fast. “A whore? A toy?” Bucky nods at that one and lean towards Steve. He groans as the vibe shifts inside of him, but cuts it off. He’s chosen an inconvenient time to obey Steve’s instructions to stay silent. 

“My toy,” Steve clarifies. “All you have to do for the rest of today is what I tell you to do. No decisions, no hard choices—just…”

Bucky, for the first time in weeks, lifts his face to Steve’s, and kisses him. 

Steve crouches on the ground before his kneeling partner, the scuffed table behind them and inconsequential, and gives Bucky his kiss. Then he runs his hands down Bucky’s arms, over cold metal and tense flesh, and stops at the ropes at Bucky’s wrists. They’re Steve’s ropes, Steve’s carefully studied knots, and Bucky’s consent not to break free. 

“You’re going to keep sucking me, and you’re going to do exactly what I tell you to do,” Steve instructs him, squeezing Bucky’s hands before standing up straight. “When I put my cock in your mouth, I want you to just let it rest. Be a good cockwarmer for me. When I start _fuck_ your mouth, I want you to suck it, lick it—make a mess for me. Got it?” 

He touches his cock to Bucky’s lips, and Bucky tongues at the nerves under the head of his cock until Steve pushes inside. Bucky holds him, waits, hands on his knees. Patient. 

Bucky does exactly as he is told. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t talk back. The tension in his forehead doesn’t return. 

When Bucky needs to breathe, Steve pulls back enough for Bucky play at the tender underside of his cock. When the rise of his lungs evens our, Steve rests the head of his dick in Bucky’s mouth to watch his lips stretch, and presses against the inside of his cheeks, fucks in to hear Bucky choke and gag and moan. 

“You’re dripping on the floor,” Steve says, pulling back completely. It’s not much, just Brucky's precum beading at the head of his dick, a few drops fallen onto the hardwood. “You made a mess,” Steve whispers. 

He turns the vibrator off, and Bucky whines a protest. Steve puts a hand on Bucky’s throat, his thumb along the line of Bucky’s jaw, and tilts his face up. Bucky’s eyes stay low, but his swollen lips are already parted. Steve eases his cock inside again, just for a moment. 

Steve takes time to get himself in the right mindspace. It’s new, treating Bucky as an object instead of a person. It’s a different kind of trust, in Bucky and from Bucky. Bucky’s cheek stretches out against the soft pads of Steve’s fingers as he slides the head of his cock against the inside of Bucky’s cheek and then nudges at the back of his throat before pulling out. He pulls his pants back up around his waist, and looks around the room. 

Weeks ago Bucky sat down on that couch and put his boots up on the coffee table (adding one more scuff mark to a table worth literally _thousands_ of dollars). Steve had heaved an exasperated sigh, raised his hand in a mock slap—the emptiest of threats—and Bucky’s body had shivered and gone limp. His hand went to his cock almost subconsciously. When Steve had slowly lowered raised, Bucky had fled, the clomp of his boots on the floor thundering out of the room. 

Steve raises his hand. Moves carefully, with deliberation, because Bucky’s unfocused eyes are tracking slowly. Steve tenses his muscles, holds the pose, makes his intention clear. Waits. Finds himself in an unwilling pause, not sure how to proceed. “Buck—if you want me to do this, I need you to say something.” 

“Steve,” Bucky says reverently, in a voice that is thick and wet, wrecked and hungry. “Do it.” Steve is pretty sure that if he stretches this out any longer, Bucky will add a _please_. Steve doesn’t want to make Bucky beg.

Steve takes a breath. He’s never actually slapped anyone before. It’s not something you learn as a scrappy kid; not something Natasha had added to his training in the years after New York when he was learning how to live again. 

He uses the back of his hand and strikes Bucky across the right side of his face. It feels punitive. An insulting violence. You slap people when you don’t expect them to hit you back. 

And Bucky doesn’t. 

Bucky tilts to the side, a slump only made graceful because the frame of Steve’s rope keeps him centered on his knees. The back of Steve’s hand stings, and the shock of his own pain outlasts the red print on Bucky’s cheek. They both heal too fast. 

Bucky pulls himself back up, head bowed, hair across his face. 

Steve slaps him with his left hand this time, no warning wind-up, and it makes Bucky gasp. Turning the vibrator on makes him moan.

When Bucky gets himself back up, his shoulders fall back into the most relaxed parade rest Steve has ever seen from him. 

The crack of his hand is a new punctuation; this is a new language Bucky’s teaching him. Two more hits. Right, left. Bucky’s hair falls across his face, a shifting curtain that Steve draws back when it covers too much of Bucky’s eyes. 

Bucky’s face is flushed and sweaty. When Steve presses a finger against a particularly dark mark, Bucky lifts his eyes. He seems drunk. 

Steve wants to get him off the floor and take him to bed, wants to apologize, wants to hold Bucky until he wanders out of this mental space on his own, wants to say _Bucky I don’t know what I’m doing what we’re doing I don’t know what’s wrong with you I don’t know who I am_. But Steve is not a liar or a coward. He knows that he can give Bucky space to breathe, knows that if he lets Bucky fall deep enough, he might let Steve help him out of it. 

He strikes Bucky until his arms feels tired. Bucky breathes and bends and drips precum on the floor, his knees braced wide.

“Do you want to come?” Steve asks. Bucky blinks through his fog, then shakes his head. Steve doesn't know if he's confused or safewording or grateful. Steve turns the vibe off and on again, then delivers another slap to Bucky’s cheek, whipping his head around. "You're hard," Steve says, because Bucky's not tracking much of anything. "You need to come, don't you?"

Bucky looks as Steve, and shakes his head _no_ and nods _yes_ and tilts his face to the side, showing his neck, opening himself up for another strike.

Steve plays with the switch of the vibrator until Bucky's eyes flutter closed, his cock jerking erratically. Then he turns the vibe off and crouches down in front of Bucky. He touches Bucky's cock with one gentle finger, stroking a line up and down the shaft. Bucky hunches forward like he's been gut-punched. “What would you do if I told you not to come?” Steve asks.

“I wouldn’t come,” Bucky answers, letting out a loose sigh, content to have an easy question to answer. 

Steve wraps a hand in Bucky’s new long hair and stands, pulling Bucky upwards painfully hard. Bucky lets out a whimper and sits up as straight as he can, breaking his kneeling stance. 

Steve flicks the vibrator back on and Bucky jerks in his grip like a puppet on jangling strings. Steve gives him an extra shake just to watch him writhe. If he were a good enough artist, Steve would try to capture Bucky like this, a predator so willingly vulnerable. 

He lets Bucky go, and Bucky slumps forward. Steve braces himself and gets a firm grasp on Bucky's cold shoulder, leans Bucky slowly back until his body is a tight arch of muscle and metal, his arms trapped behind him. He uses all of his science-given grace and strength to dip Bucky back, like they're partners in an unusually filthy tango, maybe the only dance Steve will ever be good at. Bucky's cock juts proudly out from his body, a still-deepening red, and his nipples are pebbled and dark. 

“Buck,” Steve says. His voice cracks, lifted and shattered by the sheer velocity of what he should not want. If he let go, Bucky would fall. “I want to make you come. Can I—”

“Yes.” Bucky’s voice cracks out like the retort of a rifle, and Steve is on him before the bullet strikes. He pulls Bucky back up into a sitting position, then kneels on the ground. He wraps an arm around Bucky's hips, nudging his bound wrists to the side so that Steve can reach between his legs and grab the base of the vibrator. 

Bucky shouts, turning his face to Steve like he’s honestly surprised that Steve would do this to him—and Steve pulls the vibrator all the way out before twisting it back in. Bucky falls against him, all shoulders and tucked chin, the angle allowing him pitifully little movement. Bucky’s cock is against his thigh, and he hitches his hips forward with disgruntled, breathy groans as Steve fucks him. 

Steve talks, drowning out the low sound of the vibrator and the stream of Bucky's involuntary pleas. He praises Bucky for following orders, for being perfect, for being Steve's, for being needy. He gives no orders. Bucky keeps his chin tucked against Steve's neck, his cheeks still hot from the punishment of Steve's hands, wet with tears. 

When Bucky comes, he does so with a shout, muffled and still louder than Steve has ever heard him before, body jerking in Steve’s arms. Steve can feel the semen spread on his own clothes, against his cock, but he doesn’t particularly need to come. Doesn’t want to. He’s already gotten everything. 

He leaves the vibe on and keeps up his running commentary until Bucky starts mumbling unhappily and trying to pull his wrists free of their bonds. Steve kisses Bucky's shoulder, then his neck, and then his swollen lips before he turns off the vibe. Bucky's a limp, sweaty weight against him, and Steve adjusts him carefully as he reaches for the rope knots and pulls at the loose end to release them. 

Bucky groans, pulling his right arm in front of him with a clumsy effort, the metal panels on the left shifting and rearranging. Steve waits for him to collect himself, then asks, “You’re okay? That was—you’re okay?” 

Bucky looks up at him with an expression that Steve’s been seeing since before he hit double-digits. “You idiot,” Bucky says, voice still ragged. His cheeks are red from exertion and arousal and from Steve striking him, over and over again. Bucky reaches for Steve’s hand and checks the skin. Smooth, tan, unblemished. “Are _you_ okay?” Bucky asks. 

“Yeah,” Steve says, still trying to look Bucky over, getting stuck every time he sees the marks on his face. “I didn’t go too far? That wasn’t… I hurt you.” 

“Stop whining and get in the shower, Rogers." Bucky's voice is strong and his body is still completely at ease. "If you want to apologize, do it in the morning. Right now, I want to give you a blowjob—a _short_ one, because my jaw is fucking killing me—and then I want you to give my shoulders a massage, and then go to bed, and you can snuggle me to your heart’s content.” He tacks on a glare a bit too belatedly. 

“That, uh—” It sounds perfect, actually. 

Bucky makes Steve help him up, and bullies Steve into washing his hair, and looks sadly at the kitchen until Steve makes them midnight snacks. 

It’s the first time Bucky’s let Steve take care of him without feeling resentful since Bucky realized who he was. It’s the first time Steve’s taken care of Bucky without feeling like he’s apologizing for something. 

“We’ve got a pretty good thing here,” Bucky says when they’re in bed, getting crumbs all over the sheets. 

“Yeah,” Steve says. “I guess it’s not too bad.” 

He licks the crumbs off Bucky’s fingers and falls asleep with a warm arm wrapped around him and metal fingers playing in his hair.

**Author's Note:**

> Also, shadowen gave me the title. It's from the Moulin Rouge song.


End file.
